


Hands

by imogenbynight



Series: Odds and Ends [13]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Short One Shot, hand-holding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-05
Updated: 2016-11-05
Packaged: 2018-08-28 19:46:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8460649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imogenbynight/pseuds/imogenbynight
Summary: There’s an intimacy in holding hands.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I posted this tiny lil ficlet on Tumblr ages ago but never got around to putting it here.

The thing is, there’s an _intimacy_ in holding hands. More than what he can find in a one-night stand or the post-hunt press of a palm to a shoulder, and it’s something he’s been fighting against wanting for the longest time.

The day he finally tires of fighting, it’s not even a life or death situation. Just an ordinary night, sitting in the car and staking out a building that may or may not contain a nest of vamps.

Castiel’s hand is splayed out on the bench seat between them, and though he’s meant to be watching the warehouse door, Dean can’t stop glancing at it. At the space between Castiel’s hand and his; mere inches that have always felt impassable. Until today.

Perhaps it’s the music on the radio, quiet and lilting soft. Perhaps it’s the lull of rain on the roof, or the calm glow of the streetlamp outside. Perhaps it’s a feeling all of it’s own, spurred on by the way that they’ve been circling one another lately. Closer and closer every day.

Castiel’s knuckles are still bruised from a hunt last week, and somehow, it’s easy enough for Dean to pretend he’s only testing for soreness when he touches the still-healing scar on the edge of his thumb. It’s raised and silk-soft, the texture standing out against the rest of his hand, and Dean strokes over it once before he starts to consider it might be a bad idea. Castiel spreads his fingers out, though, and it makes sense to check the rest. Dean touches each one carefully. The fading purple-yellow bloom on his first three knuckles. The scrape on the back of his hand, almost to the wrist.

As he runs them over Castiel’s skin, Dean’s fingers are contradictions. Tender as they are calloused; sure as they are timorous. He can’t bring himself to look up, but when he’s finished with the back Castiel flips his hand without a word, allowing Dean to continue on his palm.

There are no new scars there, but every line in his palm is mapped out and made new beneath Dean’s careful touch like land shifting beneath the weight of a river, and while he loses himself in the closeness Castiel’s eyes never leave him.

When he finally allows himself to sink his fingers between Castiel’s, he wonders why he fought it for so long.


End file.
